In a world of her own, Hyacinth carefully dusts around the pretty things each girl has left at their backstage work-station. Some girls keep their gear in Tupperware, others have left it loose. Mascaras, nipple tassels, lube, eyeshadow and deodorant bottles are all piled up lifelessly. She cleans their makeup mirrors and afterwards, it's an extra effort to remove caked make-up stains from the long, black bench top.
The small, narrow room smells of face powder, latex and cheap perfume. Hyacinth is tired now, midway through her shift, having cleaned the performance area and it's low hanging mirror balls and glass-topped stages. (She uses special hypo-allergenic spray for the poles and chairs.) Normally her brother would be helping. Today he is despicable; hungover, lazy, absent. She sighs.
Looking about her, Hyacinth knows the warmly lit little dressing room is something other than a wonderland. Often it's a place of smoke and hot, tired girls no older than herself trying to gather their wits (or further scatter them). She imagines the bustle and noise but it's early morning, no one will be about for another few hours.
Hydie bends over to empty a small bin into a larger plastic sack at her side. It rustles in the quiet, airless room. She props the door open, finding a lavish feather boa, hanging on a hook by the door. It's a fine garment, much longer than any boa she has seen, red, rich, real and scratchy. Hydie wraps it around her neck and winds it around her arms, admiring herself playfully in the mirror. She looks a dream, it hides her skirt and slacks and clusters around her neck in a cloud of feathers.
Hydie takes it off. She looks about the room for other dress ups, eyeing a thin, silk tie with an elastic collar and matching emerald green heels.
Who would see?
